#shattered flames; burning crystals

[achromaticsremixture]

shattered flames

every step breaks the prewritten narrative of your story for me and with every crack, i spiral, further and further into lucifer’s domain, away from your seraphic mansion the angels say, you don’t belong, freak and i believe, that i,  am no longer human. 

encased in the ice of time is me to change and to grow; to be human is what you do  frozen as i am, can you call me a true member of this rat race?  defined by my past; imprisoned by my future so tell me, honestly,  am i qualified for humanity? 

flames lick at the heels of my shoes and iridescent flickers eat away at the glass that forms, at the glass that flies away, at the simplest touch, and  transfixed, at the sight, i  am amazed? 

crystallisation is a beautiful sight, and  i appreciate every single part of it and your words form memories, of times long lost, and  i can’t help but let tears fall

and all at once, the flames turn to glass blue and pink swirling idly in a mosaic of laughter wind chimes ringing over wood smelling of cedar phrases fly by, and quotes that hold value shape me, and for once, i feel that i  deserve to be human. 

[captainfern]

Morning After Dark

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x fem!reader

["Morning After Dark" by Timbaland]

[18+]

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

• summary - after a mission gone wrong, gaz is very happy to see you lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 4k • warnings - fem!reader, heavy pining from gaz, sub!gaz? yeah, oral [f!receiving], unprotected piv, begging, praise, fingering, this man is in love with you, strong language, a bit of violence at the start?

decided to break the writers block by writing for GazFest - go check out @glitterypirateduck and read through the other works !!

enjoy the smut lol

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

The entire mission was a complete and utter disaster.

You don't even know what really happened. One moment, you had split up from your task force to clear an enemy compound. The next, the building was collapsing around you.

You struggled to get out in time. Insurgents kept you busy, emptying their mags as you sprinted down the dark hallways, alarms blaring, lights flashing. You dodged bullets that flew hot past your head, the ceiling crumbling behind you and blocking the rest of the hallway.

Your legs were burning, lungs straining, heart hammering painfully against your ribcage. You could taste dust in the air, copper coating your tongue. Black particles flew around in the air in flurries, your vision becoming increasingly blurred.

You spluttered, squinting through the flashing lights and long shadows. As you ran down the hallway, you checked each passing doorway in search of your task force. You found nothing.

The compound rocked again, another explosion sending you off your feet. You flew forward, skidding along the dust-covered floor, the air being pushed from your lungs. You took a gasping breath, crawling back to your feet as the ceiling above you fell through. You scrambled out of the way just in time, a slab of concrete slamming into the ground with an ear-splitting thud.

"Oh my god..." You breathed, shuffling backwards. You pressed at your communication collar, trying to get through to anyone.

The only voice that filled your ears was your own as you called out for your comrades. Your comms were cut, buzzing with static.

You cursed, continuing down the hallway as the compound shook and shuddered around you. You could smell smoke now, the narrow hall filling with an acrid grey cloud that made your stomach churn.

You needed to get the hell out of there.

A surge of adrenaline taking hold of you, you kicked down the nearest door. It flew off it's hinges, and you ran inside. You swept the small room, finding it clear, before you rushed towards the window. As you ran towards it, you fired your gun, the bullets shattering the glass. Then, crystal fragments of the windowpane still falling like snowflakes, you leapt out the window just as flames began ripping down the hallway behind you.

You hit the grass and rolled, slicing your arms on the shards of glass. When you stopped rolling, you lay flat on your back and took several deep breaths.

But there was no time to lay down. With adrenaline still coursing hot through your veins, you got up and ran.

•º•

You searched everywhere. For hours, you searched through the debris of nearby compounds, also returning to the one you escaped from, combing through the chunks of concrete and steel. You couldn't find any signs of your captain, lieutenant, or fellow sergeants anywhere, dead or alive. You weren't sure if that gave you hope or not.

After what seemed like an eternity, you decided to fall back from the area. You knew there was a safe house a few miles out, and you just hoped that some of your task force had made it there.

So you ran.

Usually, you would never have willingly ran that far. But your body was drunk on adrenaline, your heart pumping so fast you felt as though it'd explode out of your chest at any second. So, clutching your assault rifle, you sprinted as fast as you could continuously for several kilometres in pure darkness.

Once the adrenaline wore off, your body would be not be happy with you.

You reached the safe house in the early hours of the morning. It was still pitch black in the area surrounding the house– shadowed woodlands to one side, dark farmland to the other.

You could still taste smoke and blood in your mouth as you climbed up the front steps. Coughing, you stumbled inside, and was immediately met with a gun to your forehead.

"What the–?" You stuttered through a cough, the muzzle of a pistol pressed between your eyes.

Behind the gun, Gaz let out a loud, relieved sigh. "Sarge, oh my god." His sentence was full of disbelief and shock. He lowered his gun and took a good look at you, his eyes widening. "Oh my god..." He repeated, more relieved this time.

He wrapped his arms around you, crushing you to his chest. Your face was pushed between his pecs, and you didn't have the heart to tell him he was literally suffocating you.

"I was... oh my god, I was so worried about you," he said, letting you go and closing the front door. "You weren't answering comms, and I was scared–"

"My comms are fried," you grimaced, yanking your collar off. Meanwhile, you kicked off your shoes and put your gun down too. "Where're the others?"

Gaz nodded behind him. "Soap got hit, so he's resting in the back room. Ghost is with him. Price's asleep. I was meant to be on watch–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Is Soap okay? Let me–"

You went to move past Gaz, but he stopped you with a hand to your shoulder. "Hold on, sarge, he'll be asleep. You can see him in the morning."

You released a short breath, nodding. Gaz smiled sympathetically, squeezing your shoulder. He continued to hold your shoulder as his eyes scanned your face.

You turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"You're a bit cut up," he whispered, bringing his other hand to your face. He pressed his thumb to a cut on your cheekbone, and you hissed in pain. He retracted his thumb. "Sorry. Let... let me clean you up."

"I'm fine." You yawned, shuffling away from him and sinking onto the couch. A cloud of dust lifted when you sunk down onto the cushions, making you sneeze.

"Bless you," Gaz said, appearing in front of you with a first aid kit. Where'd he get that? "And you're not fine, sarge. Just let me clean you up, eh?"

He situated himself beside you, opening the kit and producing some antiseptic wipes. You peered at him suspiciously as he tore the packaging open and held the small white cloth towards your face.

You jerked away. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

He smiled. "Not really."

He pressed the wipe to the cut on your cheekbone and you hissed out again, cursing beneath your breath at the sting. The pain was sharp, but his touch was gentle– one hand holding your face while the other wiped the dirt and dried blood away from the wound.

"You're not supposed to use antiseptic wipes on cuts, Gaz." You mumbled as he pulled the wipe away, your skin tingling.

Gaz tossed the wipe aside. "Why didn't you bloody tell me that?"

"Forgot," you told him. "And, hey, don't blame me! You've been in the military longer. Haven't you learnt this already?"

Gaz was now fishing some saline solution from the first aid kit. He uncapped the small bottle, then proceeded to flush the wound. The solution was cold on your cheek, and you shivered when a droplet rolled down your jaw and neck.

"Probably," Gaz said, a small smile cracking across his face. "But I wasn't really paying attention."

With his thumb, he smeared the small streams of saline across your cheek, inspecting the wound. He put the bottle back in the kit, producing a small plaster and tearing off the plastic backing. Carefully, he stuck it over the wound on your cheek, his other hand still cupping the side of your face.

Gaz's eyes fell across the rest of your face, darting between your features. His expression was soft as he held your face, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the sticking plaster. Dark eyes trailed the shape of your face through the semi-darkness, and you could feel the warmth of his hands against your cheeks.

Your heart was pumping, remnants of adrenaline lingering in your veins.

"Is this why you weren't paying attention during your med training?" You joked with a coy smile. "Got distracted?"

His eyes fell to your mouth briefly, before darting back up to your eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, giving him an expression of puppy-like confusion. "What?"

You laughed lightly. "Nevermind."

You could visibly see his heart rate pick up by the way his breathing quickened and the way his pupils began to slowly expand. You couldn't help but feel warm with the way he was looking at you, the way he was cradling your face like you were made of porcelain. You imagined you looked a mess with blood and dust across your face, sweaty and frazzled from your sprint through the forest.

But the way he was looking at you... your stomach was fluttering.

"Gaz..." You whispered, and his mouth dropped open a fraction, a breathy whine escaping. That surprised you, and you couldn't help but smirk at him. "What're you doing?"

He looked you in the eyes, whispering, "Sarge..."

"Yeah?"

"I really want to kiss you right now."

You almost choked on your inhale. That caught you off guard.

"What?" You blinked.

"I really want to–"

"Okay, no, I heard you, I'm just–"

"Gaz, mate, have you–? Oh."

You and Gaz's heads snapped over to the hall leading to the bedrooms, Price strolling into the room and immediately pausing. You and Gaz jumped apart, with you smoothing your hands down your face in an attempt to refocus yourself. Gaz dropped his hands nervously into his lap.

Price raised a brow. "O...kay. Are you two alright?"

"Yep." You and Gaz both answered at the same time.

Price gave you both another skeptical look, before he was picking up his own assault rifle from a nearby table, fishing a cigar out of his trouser pocket.

"Right, I'm going on watch for an hour, so I'll be outside if you need me," he said slowly, inching towards the front door. "And... the side room's free if..." He stopped himself, shaking his head as he opened the door. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Just keep in mind that Soap and Ghost are asleep."

"Bloody hell, captain." Gaz grumbled as Price closed the front door behind him.

You couldn't help but laugh, Gaz's head dropping in embarrassment. You shuffled towards him, placing a hand on his knee, and his body responded immediately, jolting beneath your touch.

"Gaz?" You prompted softly.

He looked up, clearing his throat. "Hmm?"

"You can kiss me. It's okay."

•º•

Gaz kissed you all the way down the shadowy hallway. He kissed you as he backed you into the side bedroom, closed the door and guided you back onto the bed. He kissed you as you whispered his name into his mouth over and over again as he pulled your dirty clothes from your body.

Everything about him was so warm. His lips against yours, his tongue in your mouth, warm and solid. The whispered whimpers he released into your mouth as your tongue met his were warm, too, heating your body up.

His hands burned a scorching path down your bare skin, smoothing down your sides, down your waist, circling your hips. His fingers pressed to the curve of your arse, forcing your hips up to grind against him. He was warm against your bare core, the material of his boxers damp with pre-cum.

When did he take his pants off?

You don't know. And you didn't care. You were focused on the way your body sweltered beneath his touch as he pulled and pushed the flesh of your arse and thighs like dough. The way he lifted your hips to press into his made you arch, your tits snagging against the tight compression shirt he had been wearing beneath his outer shirt.

Gaz finally pulled away from your mouth as you mewled, a string of saliva following and snapping as he sat back on his heels. His hands moved, massaging along your thighs and legs as his stare raked over your body. He let out a low moan, before he was ripping his shirt off and rolling down beside you. You gasped when he snatched your hips off the mattress, dragging you with surprising strength to sit you across his upper chest.

"Gaz?" You whispered down at him, and he moaned. You giggled, placing a hand to his mouth.

He could feel your bare cunt against the swell of his pectoral muscles, and he moaned into your hand again. You were throbbing against him, slick pooling against his burning skin.

"Ssmm-uhmmm-mmhmm."

You giggled again as he tried to speak into your palm. You tentatively lifted your hand. "What was that?"

"Sit on my face." He said a bit too loudly, and you were slapping your hand back across his mouth again.

"Gaz!" You scolded in a whisper-shout. "You have to be quiet."

His brow furrowed, before his hands were coming to grasp your arse cheeks again. He began grinding you against his chest, getting a full view of your face and tits directly above him. He moaned against your palm, eyes rolling as he felt your slit drag against him, warm and wet. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, your swollen clit moving against the smooth mound of his muscle. The grip he had on your arse was vice-like, and you wondered whether you'd feel it in the morning.

Well, it was the morning.

Soft, orangey-pink hues filtered through the thin curtains, bathing you in the colours of the sunset. The pigments shimmered against your skin, making you look like an absolute dream. Gaz clearly agreed, because he moaned beneath your palm again, eyelids sinking low.

He continued to grind you against him, listening to the soft pants falling from your lips. You opened your eyes and looked down at him, finally moving your hand. Instead, you placed your fingers around his neck. You didn't squeeze, but the obvious pressure made Gaz whine out your name, hips bucking behind you.

"Sweetheart, please, fuck, please let me–" He grit his teeth as a moan bubbled up your throat, your core throbbing against his chest. "Please sit on my face. Please, baby, please, just let me... ah fuck, just let me taste you, please."

You shushed him gently, removing your hand from his throat. You smiled down at him, beginning to lift your hips so that you could move your hips over his face. But he beat you to it– hands against your arse, he pushed you forward so quickly you lost your balance and had to grab onto the headboard. He pulled your hips down, licking a stripe up your dripping slit before he was shoving his tongue into your hole, burying his face against you.

Now, he could be as loud as he wanted with his voice being lost inside you. He moaned against your folds, the vibrations making you keen. Gaz moaned again, his tongue pressing deeper inside you, in and out, in and out.

You bit your lip to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out. You were hyper-aware of Soap and Ghost sleeping across the hall. And your captain somewhere outside.

But Gaz couldn’t care less. He was whimpering and moaning as he tasted you, dragging his tongue through your folds until he found your clit. He circled it, before sucking it into his mouth.

Your thighs clamped around his head, and he felt his cock twitch in his boxers, pearls of pre-cum staining the fabric. Fuck, he was so hard.

One hand still on one of your arse cheeks, he moved one down to grab his cock out of his boxers. He fisted it, tongue stuttering against you. He was so sensitive, so needy for you. His pace resumed, and he dipped his tongue back into your throbbing hole, pairing the movements of his fist with his tongue.

"Gaz," you whispered down at him, waiting for him to look up at you before you continued. His dark eyes were glassy, pupils blown. He whimpered against your cunt when you flexed the muscles of your thighs, tightening around his head. "M'gonna come, Gaz." You whined, rocking your hips against his mouth.

"Please, please, please." He mumbled against you. You had no idea what he said, but he knew. He knew he was begging you to come in his mouth and he wasn't embarrassed to admit it.

You put a hand to your own mouth as you came, a moan falling from your lips and muffled against your palm. Your entire body shuddered as you came around Gaz's tongue, and he was disappointed he didn't get to hear you properly. He licked up your release, the loudest thing in the room being the sound of his lewd slurping.

It made your brain short-circuit as you came down from your high, and you managed to lift yourself away from his mouth. He tried to pull you back onto him, but you resisted, shakily climbing back down his body. He immediately sat up and chased you– slamming his mouth to yours and stuffing his tongue past your lips. You could taste yourself on him as you straddled him.

"Want you so bad, sweetheart," he said against you as he somehow managed to pull his boxers the rest of the way down his legs, tossing them across the room. "Need you. Come on, baby, please."

Gaz had one hand on your hip, the other around the base of his cock as he guided it up and down your slit. He collected your arousal against his sensitive tip, and he breathed out your name. You braced yourself with your hands against his shoulders as he clumsily knocked the weeping head of his cock against your hole.

"You have to be quiet, Gaz," you whispered into his ear, sucking a mark beneath the lobe. He whimpered, hips bucking, tip prodding at your sopping cunt. You smiled against his skin. "Can you be quiet for me?"

"Yes, yes, yes, fuck, yes, please." Gaz babbled quietly, squeezing your hips, circling the head of his cock against your hole.

You sat up, tits pressed flush with his chest.

"Kiss me." You whispered and he did. As he rushed upwards to place his mouth on yours, you sunk down onto his cock. He removed his hand, grabbing both of your hips, moaning your name into your mouth as you kissed him.

You took him all, and he whined the entire time you sunk down onto him. When you stilled, pelvis against his, clit pressed to the dark hair at the base, he whispered your name into your mouth and rubbed circles on your hips.

"You okay?" You asked, lips brushing his.

He had his eyes closed, panting. You lifted a hand to cup the back of his head, and he opened his eyes. When he saw your face, how pretty you looked, his head dropped back and he released a whiny moan. Your other hand was quick to slam over his mouth.

"Gaz," you whispered sternly. "You have to be quiet if you want to fuck me, okay? Can you do that?"

He nodded quickly, trying to rock his hips against you. The sensation made the both of you whimper. Even behind your palm, his sounds of pleasure were still louder than yours.

You slowly lifted your hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be quiet, baby, I promise," he panted, slowly beginning to rock up into you. "Yeah, I'll be quiet, baby. I'll be good... fuck, I'll be good..."

He was muttering beneath his breath as his steady pace began, fucking up into you and nailing that perfect spot over and over again. You trapped a moan between your teeth, clutching at Gaz's shoulders as he fucked you. He watched you the entire time, eyes never leaving your face as his cock filled you. His cock making you feel so good.

The bed creaked lightly, the colours of the sunrise washing over the both of you as your bodies melded together. Gaz panted and whined beneath you, sucking kisses along the swell of your breasts and the curve of your neck and shoulders. You whispered his name, too, over and over again. The days extremities suddenly gone, the cuts on your face and arms suddenly painless.

All you could feel was Gaz.

He was doing so well.

And you wanted him to know it.

You looked down at him. Unsurprisingly, he was already gazing up at you, eyes misty and full of adoration.

"S'that feel good?" You whispered, bringing a hand down to stroke his face as he continued to thrust up into you. "Is this what you wanted? Yeah?"

Gaz nodded, humming his approval behind closed lips. If he opened them, he was scared he'd moan too loud. You were so warm and tight around him, so wet– sucking him in so well. It felt like you were made for him.

"Yeah?" You repeated again, cupping his cheek and pressing a kiss to his lips. It was over quickly, and he whined in the back of his throat.

"You're being so good," you whispered, meeting the thrusts of his hips and fucking yourself back down onto him. "You're such a good boy... being such a good boy for me, Kyle."

The government name.

His eyes rolled, and his mouth dropped open. He moaned your name loudly, before his words stretched out into breathy whimpers. His hips stilled, and you felt his cock twitch once, twice, before he was coming inside you. Your eyes widened as he filled you, string after string painting your insides hot. He whimpered through it, face now buried between your tits, hips rocking desperately as he rode out his premature high.

"Gaz..." You whispered, continuing to rock yourself against him. You were full of him, his cock semi-hard inside you, but you were so, so close.

"Fuck, m'sorry," he uttered into your skin. "M'sorry, baby, I didn't mean–"

"It's okay, Gaz, it's okay," you reassured him. "You did so well, it's okay. Just– ah, fuck, m'so close–"

With a groan, he pulled out of you and sat you back on his lap. He took two of his fingers and eased them back into your cunt. He plugged his cum back inside you, thrusting his fingers deep, curling against your walls.

It was your turn to moan loudly, and Gaz had to stifle the sound with his mouth. He kissed you as he added another finger. Three of his digits moved in and out of you, wet sounds echoing around the room, mixing with your breathless pants as you struggled to maintain a kiss.

"Come on, sweetheart, come on." He whispered against your mouth. Your orgasm built quickly in the base of your tummy, and you felt your thighs begin to shake, your cunt fluttering around his fingers.

"Kyle." You whimpered, and Gaz felt himself beginning to harden again.

"Come for me, baby, please." He whispered, and your body listened straight away.

You came around his fingers, walls clamping around him. You managed to keep your moan lodged in your throat– the only thing escaping being a whisper of his name. Your entire body trembled as you fizzled down from your high, and you slumped against Gaz with a content sigh. He caught you, lowering the both of you back into the mattress, removing his fingers from your cunt.

You stuck them all in his mouth, and you whined, slapping him lightly on the chest as he hummed around them.

"So good." He murmured, and you tapped his chest again.

"You're impossible." You mumbled tiredly.

He grinned. "Thank you."

"Oh my god–"

•º•

An hour or so later, the task force regrouped in the living room, gearing up for the evac. Gaz helped you fasten your tac-vest to your torso, running his fingers along your waist as he did so. You couldn't help but smile at him, and he winked. You could still feel him inside you.

Across the room, Price cleared his throat. "Alright, you lot, let's get moving."

Soap laughed from beside Ghost near the front door. "And don't worry, you two, we'll walk slow. Since, you know, you didn't manage to get much rest."

Gaz's eyes widened. "Well, wait–"

Your mouth dropped open. "Soap, you fucking–"

The Scotsman laughed again.

You and Gaz clearly weren't quiet enough.

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

remember to go check out @glitterypirateduck and the other gazfest works !!!!

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

[dmitriene]

cw: angst, emotional hurt, smut, may be a bit of comfort, complicated relationship, cunnilingus, breast play, simon have real struggles, a lot of complicated love, confessions, both rude and soft behavior from simon. pairing: simon ghost riley x fem reader

ㅤㅤㅤ“i know that you're shitty and you're bad for me„ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ“but i can't stop thinking 'bout it„

simon is not your best option, a man far from ideal, to whom you are drawn like a butterfly — simon ghost riley is a man shrouded in darkness so impenetrable that it poisons, and you, poor butterfly, found yourself drowning there.

it's difficult with simon, he keeps his distance, lurks in the shadows that are behind you, at your distance, but at the same time, he's afraid to allow himself too much.

he never writes a message, never says if he's going to leave the next day for a month long deployment, never lets his thin lips curl to exhale a declaration of love, even if yours — “love you, love you simon„ are ringing constantly in his ears in the form of melodious, breathy chants.

but fuck, he comes back like a mutt, dirty mutt, because he knows that he stains you and everytime ruins you from deep inside and for everyone else, but he can't stop.

and you don't let him.

you let him in again and again, when he's on your doorstep, early in the morning or late at night, even if you're not feeling your best, even if you're busy — you're going to drop everything, you're going to come to him and into his hands, in the hands of the ghost.

but his touch is warm, not ghostly, not penetratingly icy to the very bones — they are tender, warm as he outlines your thin skin, which is covered with goosebumps under the hard, calloused pads of his fingers, descending from your rounded, supple breasts, squeezing, playing with your small, peaky hard nipples.

down, and down, leaving behind tongues of flame that lick around your body, wrapping you in a burningly hot lump that leaves you dizzy, your own hands reaching out in response to touch him back, strip him to the bone — and he grabs your hands, a grip almost capable of bruising your wrists as he presses them into the sheets and smooths them out, growling on a protective level — “keep 'em here, bird"

it's hurts, burns you with both pain and pleasure — eyes welling with clear, crystal tears that ready to shatter, but they still on your lash line when those thick, warm palms slide further down your frail body, tracing the curve of your waist, thick fingers outline the bones of your hips and squeeze, watching the flesh turn pink under his grasp before he trickles down with gentle tickle, just until he curls his hands around your plush thighs.

thighs that will shake when he would part your slick, puffy folds on his fat tongue, licking you and suckling on your throbbing, bulging clit with ferocity, before his tongue will delve deeper, open your clenching, hot and weeping tight hole for him to taste, to drink — your throaty mewls, your sweet juices, your body language.

all of that just so he would disappear when morning sun even didn't have the time to come from under the horizon, you don't know for how long, you don't know if he'll be back this time — all that's left of simon is the scarlet buds on your skin, marking you from neck to toe, and the slowly disappearing warmth on the sheets next to you where he slept earlier.

he always return into shadows, and you always go back after him if he doesn't go back himself, that's what you are, you're his butterfly, he's your trap, but you can't stay away.

not when he does come back after weeks, month even, just so you would call him so sweetly, so familiarly, there's nothing he gives you except of his dirty, bloodied self, but you open your arms for him and chirp, just for him, for simon — “welcome back, si„

not ghost, with you — he can't be this dead version of him.

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

🥀 Unwary 🥀

After working on and off for MONTHS and staring at it a long time, here’s the Théodwyn story many of you have heard me agonizing over. I can’t look at it anymore, so we’re just hitting “post”!

It’s called Unwary, which is one of the few words Tolkien gives us to describe Théodwyn’s husband Éomund. He was a “hater of orcs” who often rode against them “in hot anger, unwarily and with few men.” That got him killed and, shortly thereafter, Théodwyn herself died of an illness. This story is my attempt to tie all that together.

Note that Théodwyn’s 3 (canonical but nameless) sisters are here; they came to help after Éomund’s death. You’ll see I gave 2 of them Gondorian names; more explanation of that at the bottom if you’re interested.

There is a fire inside Théodwyn that will not be doused.

It has smoldered for years, just waiting for the breath of air that would coax its glowing embers to life and send a wave of flame racing through her as though she were made not of bone and blood but of kindling and fuel. Now lit by Éomund’s inevitable death, the fire burns bigger and hotter each new day that dawns without him, and it laps at her heart, singeing and charring until there is nothing left but heat. Gone is anything soft and pliant, anything tender or understanding, replaced instead by blistering fury.

She stalks the plains outside of Aldburg in the dark, crunching heavily over glittering, frost encrusted grass. She is trying to outrun that fury, though a fortnight of this new nightly ritual has achieved no such thing so far. But if she cannot leave her anger behind, maybe she can still exhaust it, tire it enough that it can be wrestled into submission and leave her in peace. Deep down, she suspects the effort is in vain, but she has no better plan. She is bereft of ideas, just as she is now bereft of laughter and sympathy and hope. Her husband is just one of many things suddenly missing from her life, and he is not the one she most wants back.

Sweat soaks into both her dress and cloak, and large red blooms form on her cheeks. Each gale of frigid wind catches the dampness at the small of her back or along her hairline beneath her hood, and sends a wave of wracking chills across her heated skin. But her pace never falters despite the passing of long hours and long miles. Over the sound of her boots grinding delicate ice into so many shattered crystals, she mutters her mantra again and again, hissing out the words in time with the rhythm of her steps.

I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen. I knew this would happen.

The night is her time to let this anger out, far away from Éomer and Éowyn, both much too young to be burdened with the knowledge that their dead father was a reckless fool. Someone who couldn’t control his own impetuous need to act and, worse, refused to accept a cautioning hand even from one he professed to honor and cherish. She had begged him not to go, to delay for even a single hour until more men could be gathered to join his small party of riders. But he had been blind, as ever, to anything but his own rash impulses and instincts. He had scoffed at her fears, swept aside her concerns, given bold assurances that weren’t in his power to make. And now he was being hailed as a fallen hero while she was left alone with the consequences of his folly, to manage a tragic loss that she knew to be entirely of his own making.

She hadn’t always felt this way about him. There was a time when she found his passion and spontaneity exciting. Stirring. Romantic. To be the object of his attentions, to be the desire that he would overturn the world to sate, was a special brand of intoxicant, and she drank it in willingly. His quickness to action and his unfailing courage set him apart from other men, and he gained much by risking more than others could stomach. She felt his every gain as her own, and they ran heedless together through the world, two free souls as yet unchecked by the realities of life.

But what felt brave and thrilling and decisive when they were twenty had begun to look much different on the doorstep of forty, when he had already gained more than most men could dream of and only stood now to lose what had been so daringly won. Slowly, creepingly, she began to see his whims as childish, his zealotry as self indulgent. It surprised her every bit as much as him, but somewhere along the way, with age and responsibility and perspective, she became the person who would check him as life never had. The person to ask questions, to say no, to thwart his boldest ambitions and disappoint his most absurd hopes.

Whenever she did, he would look at her as though he looked upon a stranger, an unrecognizable drudge that had stolen the body of his daring and passionate wife. He would look at her as though she had broken faith with him, betraying their bond by choosing to accept that they lived in a world of constraints and limitations. And then she would hate herself, and him, too.

A dull, thudding pain hammers away in the space right behind her eyes, and her muscles and joints ache with every wearied step, calling out for rest. To sit or lay quietly for a while might ease the strain that has increasingly weighed on her body these last few days, the strain of too little sleep, too little food, too little protection from the harsh bite of winter. But she no longer cares for physical ease or comfort. She can endure without them; it has always been the way of the Rohirrim to bear such things without complaint. What she cannot bear is the seething in her mind during moments of stillness, those times of lonely silence while others sleep and she can only gnaw on the bones of her grievances and look with contempt at her memories now tainted by abandonment. And so she stomps through the cold desolation instead, the frozen cloud of her breath drifting along in the wake of a body indulging in the only escape available.

She knows she should be at home in case her children need her, and she knows that her sisters disapprove of how she has been acting. You’ll catch your death out there, says Edlenniel each night as she walks out the door. You need to start taking better care of yourself, clucks Théopryte, a critical eye cast over her increasingly bony figure, her unkempt hair. And this, too, makes her angry, the insistence of her elder sisters on treating her as though she is still a child even now. Nothing she does is ever good enough in their eyes – her home is too untidy, her language too profane, her daughter too much at liberty to run wild rather than learning the ways of respectable girlhood. And now she cannot even grieve correctly.

In truth, she had not expected to mourn this way. The day Éomund rode off, she had imagined her own reaction to the eventual return of his meager company without him. Sorrow, longing, despair, regret – these had been anticipated despite her frustrations. But when Éothain knocked at her door with the news, watery eyes rimmed with red and a battered horse-tailed helmet in hand, she felt none of those things. They vanished in an instant, disappeared from her heart and mind, perhaps never to return. Instead, she became like the cicadas that come to Rohan every dozen years and litter the ground with their delicate molted shells, perfectly formed images of themselves that have been deserted, no longer fit for use and liable to shatter under the slightest of pressures.

Now every interaction, every well-meaning friend or suffering relative, is at risk of being the next target of the dull blade of her anger, always at the ready to hack and slice ineffectually at those who draw her attention and, thus, her scorn. The neighbors who look at her pityingly as they pass by. The men of Éomund’s company who expect her to join them in their grief. Even her sweet son, all knobby knees and gangly elbows, works an inflamed nerve as he swings a sword much too big for him, vowing to protect their house now in his father’s absence. It’s a mother’s job to protect her child, not the other way around, she says to the thin frame and slight shoulders that are not yet grown enough to bear his own charge. You have years left just to be a boy, safe under my care. But it is said through gritted teeth, her tone emotionless, and he doesn’t believe her.

She has enough awareness still to see what she’s become, and though she cannot change it, she knows to try to hide it. She labors each day to be the mother her children need, sitting with them as they cry and holding her tongue when they paint Éomund in their remembrances as a valiant hero, a man to rival all the greatest legends of song. But they know that something isn’t right within her; some voice inside their childlike minds warns them of peril in the one place where they were trained never to expect it. Éomer has stopped asking why she doesn’t cry, and Éowyn now clearly prefers to seek her comfort from Tadiel, whose soft arms, doughy middle and doting indulgence provide what Théodwyn’s sharp, angular body and brittle bearing simply can’t or won’t.

As it inches toward sunrise, she reluctantly turns toward home again, where soon the rest of the household will begin to stir and her absence will be noted, frowned about and tsked over. The judgment of her sisters is no real concern, but she doesn’t want to add to the worries of her children. For them, she will fight to maintain even the barest pretense of normalcy. For her children, she will sit in that house among the remains of Éomund’s life – his belongings, his clothes, his scent – and she will struggle to breathe through the poisonous resentment that is trapped in her throat because she cannot allow it to pass her lips. For her children, she will choke.

The gate comes into view and, beyond it, the garden that she once loved and nurtured into glory, now gone dormant for the winter. She stumbles on the rise to the path, and a knee drives into the frozen ground. She rights herself with difficulty, grunting in the effort, and she curses at this clumsiness. Weakness of body has never been a challenge of hers, and she cannot understand the heavy, dragging feeling that follows her to the door. For the first time, she considers whether everything – the throbbing head, the sweating skin, the screaming joints – is not just a product of exertion but something more serious. Something brought on by the refusal to rest, to eat, to stay warm, to accept comfort and support. It is an unsettling thought, and she tries to push it from her mind as she slips quietly inside.

The frozen sting in her fingertips and toes is a strange counterpoint to the burning heat of her forehead and cheeks, and she collapses into a chair by the fire, waiting out the gradual thaw of her frost-dulled limbs and the eventual return of her body to how it is supposed to feel. But though her fingers slowly lose their bluish tinge and sensation tentatively returns to her feet, the heat in her face and the exhaustion in her muscles only grow. Time ticks by, innumerable minutes that seem like hours, and she can feel it all continue to worsen. What little energy she had now spills from her body like the blood of the stags that Éomund used to hunt, their carcasses sliced open and left to drain. A shiver runs through her, once and then again and again and again, every time stronger until the shivers are full-body spasms that clack her teeth together, threatening to catch her tongue in each jolt. A low, groaning noise fills the room, and she discovers with surprise that it is coming from her own throat.

Good gods, Théodwyn. What have you done to yourself? Edlenniel is in the doorway, and the horrified alarm in her voice is enough to smother the instinct to snap in response. What has she done? She tries to stand, but her legs don’t respond. A strange distance has crept in and inserted itself between the intentions of her mind and the obedience of her body. She wills herself up again and lurches forward with great effort. Is she standing now? She cannot be, not with the cool, smooth stone of the floor somehow pressed to her flushed cheek. She would lift her head to check, but the exhaustion is so heavy that it pins her down, the turning of a screw that secures her, motionless, to wherever she has landed.

Her mind becomes slow and hazy, her sight flickering in and out as though she is passing quickly between rooms that are brightly lit and others that are in total darkness. Théopryte is there and then not. Calls for help are relayed down the hall, and more people rush in. Tadiel pulls Éomer from the doorway, a hand over his eyes as though the sight of his mother is too frightful for him even to look upon. Clamoring, urgent voices echo around inside Théodwyn’s head until they are no longer intelligible to her, just a whirling churn of volumes and tones. She floats, alone and disconnected, in a sea of others’ panic.

A man’s face appears in her field of vision, lifting her up and carrying her to a nearby couch. Théodred? It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and the face shakes its head. No, of course not. Her beloved nephew doesn’t live in Aldburg and never has. A neighbor, then? Or servant? She loses interest before she can unravel the mystery, distracted by a painful new sensation that prickles across the surface of her skin like a thousand small needles. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to exhale the pain with her every labored breath.

Uncounted hours pass, and she is now in her own bed, though she cannot recall being brought there. It takes all her effort just to keep her eyes open, and each time she blinks, it feels like scraping her eyelids over sand. She drifts in and out of lucidity, bobbing in a current of confused thought like a small boat tied up at the edge of a running river. When she’s lost, she is certain she can see Éomund in the corner, watching her in grave silence. When she’s present, she hears bits and snatches of hushed conversation, all in the voices of her sisters. The healer says there is nothing more to be done, says one. Such an awful waste, sniffles another. I knew this would happen, sighs the third. But who could stop her from running herself into the ground this way? She’s always done just what she wanted, no matter how rash or irresponsible.

Amidst all her pains, these words hit her like a blow, and an immediate, convulsive heaving in her stomach has others running for the healer again to manage this fresh symptom of her malady. But she knows it for what it really is: the retching out of unwelcome truth, her body’s rejection of this simple distillation of her fate. Recovery is not coming. She will die here in this bed, and her death will be needless. Pointless. And all the more shameful because she should have known better. She could have heeded the cautions and warnings of others.

Edlenniel leans her over a bowl as she empties herself of what little she’s eaten in the last day, and the bitter taste in her mouth lingers even after she has swirled and spat out many mouthfuls of water. It lingers as she collapses back into the sweat-soaked sheets that cling to every inch of exposed skin. It lingers as her addled mind struggles to reckon with the weight and cost of her mistake, this tragedy of her own making. It will always linger, for all the minutes she has left in the world and for the eternity that stretches out into the boundless, unknown future beyond it.

Her head lolls weakly to one side, and she can see Éomund in the corner still watching, silent and attentive. His face is not impassive, but calm. He accepts what has happened, is happening, will happen, and she must accept it, too. He dissolves into a vague blur as hot tears begin to spill down her cheeks, and whether they are tears for him or for herself, she isn’t sure. When she blinks her eyes clear again, he has moved closer to the bedside. He smiles softly, the wistful look of one who knows what it is to carry the burden of self-blame past any hope of remedy, and he reaches toward her with an open hand. A hand of consolation and invitation.

She will take it, but not yet.

Bring the children, she rasps out.

There is a moment’s debate in the room, furious whispers that drift to her ears. Not something a child should witness, she hears. There may not be time to wait, is the response. She repeats her request, louder this time, and the debate intensifies, rising in pitch and strength. But before the argument can resolve itself, Éomer has pushed in from the hallway, towing little Éowyn by the hand. Her words have reached them on their own.

She struggles to bring her son and daughter into focus, just as they struggle to see the outlines of their strong, capable mother in this frail, spiritless form. She craves nothing more than rest, but she knows she cannot; if she rests now, she will not wake again. She takes each one by the hand, their skin cold and dry against her own clammy fingers and palms, and presses those hands to her lips.

Be good for your uncle, she tells them. Your cousin will love you as a brother.

Éomer, quicker to understand, begins to cry, and his tears trigger Éowyn’s. Soon all three are crying together, for both the first and last time.

You deserve better than this, she should say. I have failed you, she wants to say. But would it give them any comfort to know that she belatedly understands her own mistakes? That left to do it all again, she would guarantee that they would never be without their mother? What can she tell them now that will help and not hurt, that will be a gift and not a hindrance? She swallows hard, and it is like swallowing gravel. Your father and I did the best we could, she whispers. The two of you will do better, and we will be proud.

She drops back to the pillow, exhausted beyond measure, and someone bundles the children back out into the hall again. Éomund smiles at her, and she nods. Her eyes drift closed as his hand wraps around hers, and the burning in her heart and skin slowly fades, the fire extinguished at last.

A note on the sisters of Théoden: Their father, Thengel, ran away to Gondor as a young man and lived there for a huge chunk of his life. He married Morwen, a Gondorian woman, and Tolkien tells us he only went back to Rohan “unwillingly” to take up the throne after his own father died. 2 of his daughters and his son were born in Gondor before that happened, and my HC is that all 3 of them had Gondorian names because, at the time, Thengel never had any intention of ever going back. So that gives us Edlenniel (“daughter of the exile,” since that’s how he saw himself) and Tadiel (“second daughter,” so overshadowed by her siblings that Thengel couldn’t be bothered to even give her an interesting name).

Théoden himself had a Gondorian name as well (Arnhereg, “royal blood”) but he changed it to something Rohirric (Théoden means “leader of the people”) when the family went back to Rohan both because he wanted to fit in better and because it seemed only appropriate that the future king of Rohan have a Rohirric name. Then when the other two sisters were born in Rohan, they were given Rohirric names as well (Théopryte, “pride of the people,” who was extremely beautiful; and Théodwyn, “joy of the people,” who was full of spirit).

3 of the 4 sisters were dead by the time of the War of the Ring (Edlenniel from old age, Théopryte from an accident, and Théodwyn as described here), and Tadiel had gone back to Gondor. Edlenniel never had any children and Tadiel and Théopryte had only daughters, which is why we don’t hear anything about other cousins that might have competed with Éomer for the throne after Théodred’s death. I’ve made a backstory for each of the sisters, but no use putting that all here since I’ve already gone on too long!

(Dividers by the wonderful @quillofspirit !)

[wroteclassicaly]

Summary: Sometimes, you just gotta use Steve. And sometimes — he’s just gotta let you.

Warnings: Language, NSFW, PWP, vaginal sex, overall filth, etc.

A/N: Something I came up with last night because some of us are sluts for Steve’s tight little jeans, and the monster he’s got caged inside of them. ;) This has zero plot, and it’s just filth, but I’m proud of myself because when I was writing it, I felt like I was able to form sentences again (that I actually liked, lol). Hope y’all enjoy it too? And I am working on more stuff, plus the plus sized Eddie angst/comfort that I promised! ❤️💘❤️💘

The explosion of cinnamon amongst a molten, midnight black is impeccable — it’s delicious. He’s completely gone and you’re not sure what reality you’ve landed upon, your body not still or sound. If there’s control you aren’t exactly sure who has it (does anyone, really)? There’s a rumbling sound that’s dislodged from his diaphragm, his chest — thick with chestnut curls — expands on a jagged breath. Your back arches again, that undeniable shift helping you push your hips with all they’re worth, owning your movements.

“Oh, fuck. H-honey, I can’t —“

He cuts himself off, pearly white teeth sinking into the swollen skin of his stubble bitten, top lip. Your sclera is shrouded in tears, the crystal liquid overflowing, spilling down your lash-line. He almost has to check in with you, but as your fingers find your nipples and give them that extra stimulation — he ceases, his abdomen muscles crunching beneath the tremors. He’s about to speak and you beat him to it, bearing the tendons in your throat.

“Yeah… s’ fucking good. Love it.”

He has to drop his head to crest into focus, bowed between defined shoulder blades, his large hand reaching to cradle your cheek. He nearly blows his load right then and there, a wince crackling across his features like an electric shock. Your fingertips are the pulsing magnets, his body your dynamite to explode. His mouth feels chapped and dry, but he knows that it's his throat that’s raspy, brimmed with velvet arousal, stroking the flames that lick below his navel everytime you work your heat back onto his cock, using him.

And he tries another turn at coherency. “You love what, baby?”

You’re without pause, humming, feet planted into the mattress, toes curled into his baby blue bed sheets. Mingling scents of your soft perfume, his cologne, laundry detergent that littered the laundered sheets, and sex — it’s fanned with your possessive rhythm. Still, you sound more capable of speech — albeit — drenched in a honey wrapped heat, capable of destroying you both in the most aching burns. “Love having my cunt filled with your big cock, Steve.”

“That right?” It’s through clenched teeth that it separates itself free of his throat. His calloused thumb pad finds your cheekbone, pathing a way only he can ever know, one that slithers across your jaw and presses into the corner of your mouth, prying open your lips to hear you beg just a little more. “You know that you take it better than anyone else ever has, honey? Like you were made for it.”

Those words ignite your blazing inferno, your hips raising off the mattress and pushing, retracting into a rough bounce, an encouragement, a plea. Steve has never seen you like this before. A goddess amongst his broken knighthood (he needs to stop hanging around Eddie when the dude has Hellfire and goes all nerdy on him with metaphors), summoning his body for your sole pleasure, bringing him to the brink and shattering the release before he can even begin to sample a taste. Everything stings, prickling his tongue, locking his muscles into submission, his hair constantly swaying in his sweaty forehead and matting there, leaving him to blink rapidly. He isn’t sure what time it is, aware that he’s been bouncing you in a painstakingly, agonizing rhythm over his swollen cock, no one cumming, left to graze that high with fingertips.

Steve can barely take it anymore, his balls throbbing with unshed release, posture growing sloppy with choppy exhaustion. But damn it feels so fucking good, with his bones satiated and melting, fusing into his overworked muscles. And then you run your fingers through his chest hair, your digits stretching to splay across his jugular, arm elongating to assist. Steve wraps a limb around your back, using his forearm to propel you forward, your pussy taking him the rest of the way with a slick squelch, an immediate press of your milky white cream seeping out around where you’re joined, soaking him. His fingertips press into the meat of your back, tapping idly, squeezing.

“My dick is fucking soaked, honey. You’ve just been using me up for the last hour, huh?” His plush mouth finds the skin behind your ear, your breasts smashing into his chest and sticking.

He nibbles a little, alternating with that diabolical swipe of his tongue along the side of your neck, seizing your salty exertion — your body dusted in layers upon layers of it. It’s Steve who takes this movement, falling back onto his haunches and raising a bit to tighten his hold around your lower back, the other lacing your hands together and wiggling them between your thighs, making them part further, your limbs still wrapped around his waist, now draping over top his hips. He uses his nose to nudge your gaze, redirecting it to where he slides out enough for you to see his cock shining with a mess of you. “Look, honey. You see all this mess?”

If you weren’t totally in love with this man, you would’ve been flooded with shame. You’ve gotten yourself so fucking wet from simply riding him at a cruelly, leisurely pace, that your thick essence has patched itself around the public hair at the base of his shaft, slicking it back and bubbling away with a peeling squish — one that drizzles down and strings across his full balls. He can’t take it anymore, his hand sliding up your back and fisting into the back of your hair. You surrender, almost letting yourself get swept out to sea once more, but Steve brings you back into the moment. “Watch this with me, baby.”

Finding that overwhelming scene between your legs, Steve uses the strength in his hips to bounce you, your cream dripping onto his thigh, and — what’s at his base, sticking to your skin, the hair tickling your clit in ways that have your eyes rolling back. Everything inside of you shouts and tightens, taking hold and bolting you to him. He already feels it inside of your warmth, your walls fluttering, squeezing, pulling him impossibly deeper inside. “Fuck, I’m cumming, Steve. Baby, I can’t hold it, please —“

“Shh, shh. I know, honey. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He buzzes through a partial hiss, jaw agape as he feels it right on through with you. The pressure is almost too much, enough to knock him onto his ass.

You’re a whimpering, quivering heap of bones and flesh, body stuck so tightly to him that he’s holding you in his lap, fucking you on his cock as you take it now, Steve in charge of capturing the high. Another squelch in the quiet of the room, a warmth of arousal that’s accumulated below your ass, Steve’s palm shoving into yours, and his lips pry yours apart, tongue rudely licking its way into your mouth and you completely come undone, drenching him into his orgasm. If pulling out was on the table, the forsaken table is in shambles at the moment, Steve’s thick, hot release sinking into your insides, body welcoming him home.

By the time the prolonged highs end, Steve piles onto his back and takes you with him, silence blanketing the room as his hand finds the flesh of your tummy and massages. Aftercare will come soon, as your limits were damn near overpowered by your cock hungry need for your boyfriend and that monster he keeps in his pants. It makes you giggle as he smiles breathlessly, welcoming your cheek onto his hairy chest.

“Never seen you like that before,” he mumbles.

Your hair is a mess when you raise to answer. “It’s not my fault you wear those tight little jeans, Harrington.”

~*~

[climbthemountain2020]

Flame of Autumn - Prologue

I am so excited to finally be posting this! Ch. 1/25

Find this also on Ao3

Biggest thanks to @thesistersarcheron and @azrielshadowssing for being my beta readers for this chapter forever ago! You're both wonderful!

[523 Years Ago] 

He was running, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest and breath crystallizing in the cold air in front of him. The leaves blurred into a tunnel of reds and oranges around him, but he refused to stop. He was young, but he knew these woods like he knew his own mind. He could run for miles–for days–but he knew in the end it wouldn't matter. There wasn’t anywhere he could go where he would be safe. 

He stumbled through his sprinting steps, winnowing blindly a few hundred yards every so often. His lungs were burning, his knees felt close to shattering. He tried to push back against it, but his small body forced him to stop, the pain becoming overwhelming. He braced his hands on his knees while he willed his racing heart to calm. The tears on his face were turning cold as they dried, and the blood had become crisp on his tunic. He shifted uncomfortably at the ache across his ribs, feeling more blood eek out to drip down his side. He pushed his hand to it, wincing at the pain freely now that he was alone. 

The trees here were old—older than recorded history, at least—and the bark peeled off in thick, ragged strips in this perpetual autumn. Time-smoothed stones dotted the ground, covered in soft moss and occasionally interrupted by ancient tree roots the size of small horses. 

The boy pushed a crimson curl out of his eyes, flinching once more at the deep pain in his side. It was deeper than his healing capabilities would be able to fix, just like his father had intended. He’d have to bind it when he returned to the Forest House, but he wouldn’t hurry. He’d already gone too far, and his absence would be noticed. It was likely not the final wound he would receive today. 

He sagged to the ground at the base of one of the old trees, allowing himself to ease back into the curved base and forcing his body to relax. 

This is your fault. The thought was in his head, but it was the voice of his father that clanged around his skull. 

Failure. Wretch. Weak. He furiously wiped at the tears pouring from him. 

Crying is for the feeble. Is that what you are, Eris? He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he saw bursts of light behind them. 

A flash of red in the distant woods caught his eye. Surely, they hadn’t been able to find him out here? He shot up as quickly as his injured ribs would allow and raced behind the tree, trying desperately to calm his breathing. The quietest notes of a song made their way to him as he peaked around the other side. 

In the clearing ahead was a girl, no older than he was. She crawled up on a decrepit stone wall that circled what looked like an ancient cemetery. The stones within were weathered well beyond translation, and the walls around it were crumbling. 

The first thing he noticed about the young girl was the bright shock of red hair that topped her head. It was tucked up loosely in a braided knot, tendrils falling loosely about her face, and it made her look as though she belonged there amongst the colorful autumn leaves. Her clothes were nice, tailored, likely the mark of a noble family, which begged the question of what she was doing all the way out here. He knew they were far enough from civilization that she would not have wandered here accidentally. 

Did she know of this spot? Was she running from something, too? 

Her humming filled the small clearing as he quietly ran forward, tree to tree, to get closer. She danced on feather-light feet along the crumbling wall, and now that he was closer, he could see her pale skin was dotted with freckles like constellations of russet stars. As he reached the closest tree to the clearing and looked around it, her humming turned to a quiet song. She sang so low it could have been a whisper, but her voice was lilting and melodic, the tune haunting. 

Through the groves of apple trees

A maiden fell upon her knees

To beg the Mother in skies above 

To send her visions of her true love 

‘I'll send you, girl, a knight so fair

With speckled skin and fire-kissed hair. 

But so deep a sadness lies within

Underneath his scarred skin’ 

But Mother, then, what will I do?

To entice him with a love so true? 

‘To crack the cold, and broken heart mend

First you must become a friend

How will I warm the cold around

His wounded heart so tightly bound?

‘You'll use your fire, warm and bright

And together walk into the light’

He was entranced by her. So much so that, when her toe caught an errant stone in the wall and she tripped, he shot forward almost as if to catch her. His eyes played tricks on him for his folly, as he watched a hole of flames erupt from the sky above, dispensing the girl through it to fall back down to the very wall he’d just watched her fall off of. 

He’d foolishly shot out from the protection of the trees when she fell, and that’s where she saw him now, hand still outstretched in an attempt to stop her, catch her, somehow. He saw her eyes, the most beautifully stunning hazel, register his presence and widen, her mouth forming an “O” in shock. 

“Wait, please don’t go,” He blurted, arm stretched towards her in a pleading arc, surprising even himself. But she’d already slipped through another flaming portal, and this time she did not reappear.

[ornii]

Arcane, Chapter 4: Things have changed, you? No..

The endless darkness had been inviting for so long, but finally there is a chance to return.

Sitting on a floating island upon the endless cosmos, (Y/n) was still alive, years had passed, he had grown. Mastering the crystal that exploded and had infused his body with this unstable power.

Standing at the edge of the island, covered in rags and robes, he extended his metal arm, sigils etched into the rusted metal hummed blue energy and began to shake, evoking what power his body had, the fabric of the world itself began to warp at a disturbing rate. It was trying to tear itself back to the real world, but no avail. The blue light fizzled and he slumped down exhausted, he punched the ground out of more frustration itself, and escape so far away, until the darkness begin to crackle with blue electricity, a large amount of energy was being used, somewhere. It didn’t matter, it was time.

(Y/n) stood up and put his hand in the air, he begins to use said energy, opening his arm up like a lighting rod, as the electricity stuck his arm, his eyes begin to shift to a soaring bright blue, power surged further and further until his arm was shaking, barely containing the energy like a bottle about to burst, with one movement, he then threw his hand forward, the force made a shockwave of energy so intense it made a small but visible tear, into a laboratory. it didn’t matter where, just not here.. (Y/n) leapt into it without hesitation, his body felt the rush of light, pressure and heat, and swiftly landed on the ground of a cool laboratory.

Placing his feet on the cold floor (Y/n) looked around, his eyes dimly lit by the light, he saw two men, stunned by his arrival, it’s obvious he’s still in Piltover. If he’s back, then he only has one goal, find powder and Vi, turning to the large glass window he extended his arm and the energy began to gather once more, with a single snap of his finger, he blasted another shockwave of blue energy hits the glass and shattered it, he leapt out of the window, regardless of how far the fall is, and it was far, as he fell he slammed his hand into the wall and began to slow his descent scarring the tower he slowed down and leapt into the waters, taking him away to hide in piltover.

Gasping for air, he washes up near the sewer pipe leading down to piltover, before he can be swept up he gripped the platform above and pulled himself up next to the pipe, and rested, seeing the blue sky, vibrant colors, finally. Leaning against the pipe, he fell asleep for hours. His eyes open to the smell of smoke, something was burning, his eyes dart upwards to the smoke rising further in Piltover. He rushed to the location, flames consume a tent, blazing. His eyes quickly shifted to the drawing made of the fire into the tent, it was a monkey, just like.. Powders.

“Is… is that?” He stepped closer, deep rooted memories began to replay, fear, anger and frustration all began to flow once more, but the coughing of a woman caught him off guard. He peered in and saw her, on the ground, flames around her. With little hesitation he ran in, he saw a wooden beam had fallen upon her chest, He gripped the beam with his arm and hurled it off and put the woman on his shoulders and ran with her out of the fire. Lying her on the ground he looked her up and down, besides the smoke and slight burns, she’ll be fine. She was dressed as an officer, Footsteps storm near his direction and he can assume the others are here. (Y/n) ran off, leaving the woman to be tended by the officers.

That woman, was Caitlyn, Lady of House Kiramman. The next morning came and She was knelling down. looking at a board of plans, all sticking together to a singular goal -a goal she just hasn’t been able to piece together, twirling a pistol she overlooks them, and hears a shuffling behind her.

“I said leave me, Jayce.” She sounded upset, and when the figure didn’t reply, she quickly turned around and aimed her gun, it was (Y/n), reading the note from the large bouquet of flowers. “To Lady Kiramman.” He said, and turned his hooded face to her.

“Who are you? How did you get it?” She demanded to know, (Y/n) calmly turned to face her, “Your windows, and could you please put you gun down? If I wanted you dead I would have let you die in that tent.” He said, and Cait was caught off guard.

“It was.. you.” She huffed, (Y/n) nodded. “Yes, you were investigating it, I want to help.”

“And why should I believe that?”

“Saving your life wasn’t enough?” He replied, and sighed, “The man you’re looking for is part of Silco’s gang. Probably using the explosives someone I know…” he said, and it began to piece together.

“I've suspected there is a single mind

behind the undercity's violence…I think whoever attacked the square

is our suspect.” Cait lowered her gun and showed him the display she had, all plans link together.

“The same symbols showed up at the botched smuggling operation at the Hexgates.”

“The Hexgates?” He had no idea what that was.

“Keep up.” She points to the maps dark end.

“All this time, they've kept their dealings

localized to the undercity. Low priority. The attack on the square changes things. They've overstepped. If I can figure who made the explosives, it could lead me directly to whoever's behind it all. The answer is here, staring me in the face.” Cat droned on, and (Y/n) smugly folds his arms.

“I guess that would be me..” (Y/n) walked over, and knelt down to look at the map. “It’s been a while since I was there, but I can remember a few faces.. especially ones that work with Silco, if what you’re saying is true.. we find the guy, and.. “chat” with him.

(Y/n) made the offer and extended his metal arm. “(Y/n)” he said, Cait reluctantly shook the cool metal hand.

“..Caitlyn, and fine, but you are going dressed like that, and you reek.”

“I haven’t taken a decent shower in years..” he said, Cait folds her arms as well. “Then you’re going to, and get a new assortment of clothes, my father could spare some, you look to fit the size. Cait took his hood off and she got a good look at his face, half of it had a scar along from the eyebrow down to his lip. His eye now glistening like a crystal is behind it. Cait was quickly surprised and stepped back. “I’m sorry I didn’t—“

“Don’t worry about it, where your shower or whatever.” He put his hood back on, Cait lead him to it, without her parents knowing of course.

Now dressed in a more casually style, ankle high boots, thick leather leggings and a button up navy blue shirt and vest combo, he tops it off with a black tie and overcoat, taking a single glove he puts it on his metal arm to avoid suspicion. Cait peers into the room.

“Done? We have to go..” she saw him in the moonlight, the way his eyes shine so beautifully, he nods, “yeah.. let’s go.”

Standing before the warden, (Y/n) kept his hood on and allowed Cait to speak.

“I need to speak with one of the inmates.” She said, the Warden at the desk looked them up and down, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, folks in here aren't usually very talkative…” he said, scribbling on his paper

“This one was hit by friendly fire. He's got reason to talk. Must have been sent in today?” She asked and he thought.

“Oh. Inmate 2135. Yeah, I'm, uh, afraid that's not possible.” He admits, (Y/n)’ jerked his head up to the Warden.

“Why not?” (Y/n) asked, the Warden looks at his papers, and taps on one.

“Uh, well, there's been...an incident.” He said, Cait and (Y/n) glance at each other and then back to him.

“What kind of incident?” Caitlyn asks.

“The...not so pretty kind.”

“You don't understand, we have to talk to him.” Caitlyn attempts to use some form of reason with the warden, whose hands were tied.

“Oh, you'll be able to. As soon as he can move his jaw again.” He replied, and (Y/n) thought, “this guy… he just got to the prison, couldn’t have made any enemies, so who did it must have known…” (Y/n) grasped what his brain was trying to relay.. whoever attacked the man must have known who he already was.. one of Silco’s men.”

“Who assaulted him?” (Y/n) asked. And the Warden could oblige with that.

The Duo entered the cell block and calmly but carefully walked down the hall to the Cell of the assailant. Loud thuds echo down the hall, sounds like someone’s taking their frustrations out on someone, or something. The pounding grew closer and closer, until the final cell door it was beating with force. (Y/n) and Caitlyn reached the cell block, and the pink hair in the dim room said enough to who it is. (Y/n)’s eyes couldn’t believe it and leaned forward his face reaching the cell bars. Vi turned around, and looked at them both.

“…Who the hell are you?”

[myreia]

FEBHYURARY XXI: SEASON

In winter, an encounter.

He finds her. Or she finds him. Stumbling her way through the back alleys of the Brume, lugging a greatsword twice her size—Fray’s greatsword—on her back. He is furious with her then, this stranger who burst into his and Rielle’s lives unwanted and unasked, dragging the asinine politics of Ishgard—and the weight of the world—with her. She claims to be a mage, yet cannot spark a whiff of magic. Until her rage takes her. Until she gives herself to the Abyss. Then it comes surging out of her, setting her blade—that blade, cursed blade, holding so many memories—aflame with violet violence. The all-consuming depths of fury and wrath burning, burning, burning, and yet at its core, a gentle warmth. A tender flame. She loves as deeply as she has been hurt, and she is the last to recognize it. This time with her is short. Brief. A moment crystalized in the Coerthan snows. When it is over and she is gone, ascending to the heights of the Pillars with her Scions and her High Houses and whatever other political machinations she has gotten herself involved in, he knows he may never see her again. He wishes he would. For Rielle’s sake, of course.

In spring, a reunion.

It has not been that long. Her hair is longer now, growing out from the shorn cut she told him she gave herself. He does not ask about Ishgard. He does not ask about the Lord Commander, her apparent paramour. Her life has moved on, higher and higher, and the stories he hears of her feel distant from the person he knows her as. They take Rielle to Gridania, soaking in the spring sun and the loamy scent of new growth. In her company, Rielle is happier than he has ever seen her. He is thankful.

In summer, a journey.

It has been two years since he saw her last. She is different now—the fury and the rage diminished to weary numbness. The red streaks have returned to her hair, she is no longer dyeing it. Perhaps she no longer feels the need to hide, to meet the expectations set on her. She is more honest, more raw… He fears something has happened. Something she will not speak of. She puts on a brave face, but inside she is as broken as her shattered soul crystal. As they traverse the scorching russet landscape of Gyr Abania, he wonders how much of this is an escape for her. An escape from her duties, an escape from her role. The further they go, the more she opens up, telling him things in confidence she has not shared with any other. It is on an achingly normal day when the realization hits. A stop by the river, where they set their blades aside and strip down to their underthings to enjoy the cool, refreshing water. As he sits on the bank, pale skin burning in the hot sun, and she looks back at him with that gentle smile… Ah, shit.

In autumn, love.

It starts in an inn on the road to Coerthas. Rielle tucked away for an early night, the pair of them retiring to his room after one too many dark looks from the other patrons. Two dark knights in the darkest corner of the tavern were bound to attract attention. Perhaps drink is to blame for their actions, perhaps not—that first night is a blur of many things unsaid coming to fruition—regardless, the end result is the same. Love that blazes darker than the abyss in their hearts. It’s a poor decision on both their parts. This thing between them—the seed for it sown years ago in bloodstained snows, only to bloom now at the worst possible time—is precious and fragile and must needs be sheltered from the tempest of her life. She is torn in so many directions—Alliance, Scions, Garlemald, friends, allies, enemies, all devouring pieces of her until there is nothing left. He swears he will not place those demands on her. He has become the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm. It’s the least he can give her. This happiness is not forever. They know they must relinquish it when they reach their destination. For everything there is a season. And for every season—as certain as the falling leaves—there comes an end.

[ser3nityst4r]

Tenth Evil

The mist flowed with the scent of magic, a tangible force that pressed heavily on everyone in the Heartslabyul dorm. Riddle Rosehearts, the usually stoic and unyielding dorm leader, was a whirlwind of fury, his face contorted in a mask of rage. His signature spell, 'Off with your head!', had failed, a truth that hit him like a brick.

Trey Clover, Riddle's childhood friend and vice dorm leader, had intervened, his magic a shield against Riddle's outburst. Trey, ever the calming presence, had used his signature spell, 'Paint the Roses,' to overwrite Riddle's destructive intent, protecting Grim, the mischievous cat-like creature, and the terrified Heartslabyul students.

“Ha! Trey's magic overwrote Riddle's!” Grim crowed, his small body swaying with barely contained glee. His laughter died abruptly in his throat as the realization dawned upon the Heartslabyul students. Their dorm leader, the one who held their loyalty and fear in equal measure, had actually intended to harm them. 

Riddle tried again and again and again continuously, “'What?” Riddle’s voice shattered the tense silence, his eyes blazing with an intensity that sent shivers down everyone’s spines. “Was my magic overwritten by yours? Does that mean your signature spell is stronger than mine?!”

Trey, ever cautious of Riddle's volatile state, chose his words carefully, “Of course it doesn’t, Riddle. Take a deep breath and listen to us.” His fingertips still glowed with a blush of green, ready to summon spells just in case Riddle attempts to harm someone again.

Riddle’s anger escalated, his voice cracking with a raw, frustrated despair. “Are YOU going to tell me that I’m wrong too? After all I’ve done to protect the rule of law?! Do you know how much I’ve suffered for this?! I… I refuse to believe this!” His magic pen glowed crimson red, same shade as the roses that were once surrounding the dorm.

The air grew heavy with a sense of impending doom. Yuu, the silent observer in the heart of this storm, felt a cold dread grip their heart. The situation was spiraling out of control, and they sensed a desperate need to intervene.

'Cease this nonsense immediately, Mr. Rosehearts!' Crowley, the Headmaster, thundered, his voice echoing through the halls. 'Any further attempt to use magic will leave your magestone completely tainted with blot!'

The threat of blot, a magical ailment that could corrupt a user's magical core, was usually enough to quell even the most rebellious student. But Riddle seemed to have crossed a line, his mind clouded by an unshakable conviction. His magic pen’s once radiating vermillion was now dimming, a sign that the crystal is almost filled with blot.

'But... I'm right! I'M the one who's right! There is NO! POSSIBLE! ALTERNATIVE!' Riddle’s voice rose in a crescendo, his eyes burning with a terrifying, almost fanatical zeal.

And with that, the unspoken tension finally burst into chaos.

Riddle's magic, fueled by an unyielding belief in his own righteousness, erupted in a torrent of uncontrollable power. The very air crackled with vibrant ruby energy, swirling around Riddle as he launched a series of spells, each one aimed at Trey, Grim, and the Heartslabyul students.

Trey, however, stood firm. His own magic, a tapestry of calming colors and soothing whispers, countered every attack, creating a protective barrier around them. Grim, his playful demeanor replaced with a panicked meow, clung to Yuu, his small body trembling and blue flames wavering.

The other students, their faces pale with fear, huddled together, their eyes wide with terror as they witnessed the terrifying display of raw magic being exchanged so quick that all their eyes could process was the mix of scarlet and verdant swirling around, aiming to overpower the other.

Crowley, his usually friendly countenance etched with worry, rushed forward, his voice booming with authority. “Riddle! You must cease this madness! Your actions are endangering everyone!”

But Riddle was lost in his own world, a world where his warped sense of justice was the only truth, where his own pain and suffering justified any means to maintain the “rule of law.” 

The Heartslabyul dorm, once a place of order and discipline, was now a battlefield, a testament to the destructive power of an unchecked belief and the fragility of friendship in the face of unwavering conviction. As the thrones grew and expanded, Yuu knew that this was only the beginning. A deep, unsettling truth had revealed itself, and they knew, with a sinking feeling, that the consequences would be far-reaching and profound. The game had changed, and the stakes were higher than anyone could have imagined. Splat Splat Splat

[mist-touchedxiv]

He had to have died. Though, what sins he'd committed to have warranted this trip to the abyss was beyond the Wood-warder.

A cough and the acrid burn of smoke grated across his throat brought him to the present. No. Not dead. But that wasn't a comfort.

Loksen's vision swam back into focus as he half-heartedly shield his face from nightmare heat of an unnatural blue fire that engulfed the market. The cough turned into a retch as another smell reached him: cooked meat.

With surprising alacrity for how godsawful he felt he sat up as his stomach lurched and the horrible burn of smoke in his throat met bile and the terribly pleasant remnants of berries and the copper taste of blood.

Wiping his mouth of the vomit, he dragged himself to his feet, his body protesting quietly the whole way.

The lucky dead (bangaa, Hyur and worst of all, Viera) strewn about in pieces and undefineable masses around the former market, the desert afternoon made dark by an impenetrable black smoke of midnight absurdly lit with the cerulean flames of Garlean destruction.

He remembered the agony of checking every Viera and other for signs of life to no avail. But, he found his attention seemingly guided down a small alley strewn with debris and the detritus of the lives of several pe-

He pushed the thought down, trying to center himself as he stumbled down an impossibly labyrinthine alley. The miles of burning urban hellscape soon gave implausibly a wide shallow stream, surrounded by an infinite darkness. He could feel the cool water sloshing at his knees, but he didn't clock the incongruity. Something. SomeONE had caught his attention. Pristine, beautiful in the knee deep water.

Fruitlessly, he waded through the water trying to close the distance but the crystal clear water was like quicksand.

Soon, the figure was slowly engulfed in the cerulean flames of Rabanastre and his pain intensified as if his very skin was slowly being stripped off his body and he cried.

"Loki... Rakas..." came an achingly beautiful voice from the burning Viera woman.

A psyche shattering primal scream of sorrow tore him asunder with sanity shredding pain.

He awoke with a gasp, his face soaked with sweat and silent tears and sat up with a start. As the drowsiness gave way to consciousness the world around him came into focus slowly.

The smell of sea salt was soon joined by calming rumble of ocean waves and the call of seabirds. Instinctively, he touched the raised scar tissue on the back of neck, a reminder of time past.

Taking several deep breathes to calm himself, he allowed the calming seabreeze coming from the gently undulating curtains of a nearby open window. A sleepy feminine murmur and the surprisingly gently touch of a large slender hand reassuringly gripped his bare inner thigh.

"Loki... you okay..." Merylwyb inquired sleepily into her pillow.

[autumnwhistles]

Middle Of Nowhere (from Last Life: The Unofficial Musical) – Full Lyric Breakdown

(full song here, full lyrics without commentary here)

An explanation for the thought process/meanings behind the lyrics of the first song of my Last Life musical, "Middle of Nowhere" – I plan on doing one after every song. Note that this follows Martyn's lore (though you don't have to already know about it, everything will be explained in the songs), so Watchers – beings that started the Life worlds to feed on negative emotions of the players that arise from them – etc are canon. Without further ado:

Ludo ludete (x3)

As I've said before, this is (hopefully) the Latin imperative to two or more people of "play the game" – the Life worlds are basically death games played out by the Watchers, with rules from them etc (whatever is said in Grian's intros)

Oh, gone, the kingdom fallen on the mountain Bare, the sands, their cacti alone Flowers razed and castles left abandoned Now we stage another show! So build up the frozen north! A south that shall fall to flames – Renew and repeat the game! 

These are (obviously to some) references to 3rd Life – in this universe, as in Martyn's canon, this game did happen before the players arrived in Last Life. The Watchers enjoyed the emotional feast they had last time, so are now creating the new world of Last Life to continue harvesting the emotions they feed on. This is the first time it's referred to as a show.

Everything up to here is considered the prologue, since this is before Last Life's creation. The next two verses are going to be set after the Last Life game has already concluded, as it's commentary on it – it wasn't necessarily intentional, but you could say that by journeying through various instrumental themes that are going to be prevalent later on in the musical story of Last Life, it's us travelling through Last Life and eventually ending up on the other side.

There is an old, old tale to be told, Of green like the spruce, of crimson and gold. Of crystals and curses, lives swapped and sold, Stories we’ll now behold.

This is talking about Last Life, setting the stage for the story we're going to be told. As stated, this and the next verse are set somewhat after the events of Last Life, with the Watchers commenting on it and sharing it with us to partake in the experience of watching it. You could also say it's an 'old tale' because some versions of this have happened countless times before, so the Watchers pretty much know how things are going to turn out.

There is an old, old song to be sung/Look to the frozen north! Of victors that lost and victims that won/Look to the south in flames! Bonds forged in fire lie shattered and dull/Look to the fallen fort! All cast aside for one/Come on and play the game

Like the first verse, this is commentary on the first game. "Frozen north" mainly refers to Magical Mountain (there are mountains in the north, ie cold); "south in flames" is the Southlands (they literally burn it down); "fallen fort" is Lizzie's fairy fort. "Victors that lost and victims that won" is comparing actual victory to emotional victory, and basically saying how everyone loses in some way or other.

There is a land, in the middle of nowhere. It was too long ago there, Since last stories arose. So the tale is told, of the middle of nowhere: Watch and witness the show there, As our appetite grows!

Generally self-explanatory – "in the middle of nowhere" refers to how it's far away from any place that's known and how the world is isolated. The lines in bold are the first lines of a handful that directly reference Martyn's Last Life teaser, since this is directly from the Watchers' perspective ("Long have we waited/A hunger grows/Surpass them all/Take friends for foes/Live not for others/Invest in one/For if they fall/Ere will be done"). Future lines that reference this will also be in purple, and will mostly be in the choruses.

The last lines are also the segue into taking us back to the tale of Last Life in person. Everything after this (world creation, player arrival) will be in real-time.

There is an old, old world to be moulded, Flames to be doused and craters unfolded Forests to spread, dark shadows to sprawl-/ Look to the names! Herald the cue!  Red leaves to mark the colours of the first to fall/Rise, rise anew!

This is the Watchers creating the Last Life world – in this, they're reforming the world of 3rd Life, as every game is in the same repurposed world in the musical's canon. The flames and craters are being erased, so this is a fresh start. "Herald the cue" – the cue for the players to arrive.

There is a call, and flocking, they come, Like moths to a flame or clouds to the sun! Ships to a whirlpool yet struggling still- Look to the trees! Look to the hills!

This is referring to how powerless the players are to heed to call and come to the games, and how insignificant they are in controlling their own fate. "Clouds to the sun" was chosen because it fit, rhymed, and created a gloomy atmosphere – however, something I thought of afterwards was that since (due to Martyn's lore) Watcher Grian ("the sun") is canon, it can also refer to how when he joins the game, his vision/watcherness becomes clouded, as he's part of events and doesn't have access to all his powers.

Look to them, all the same/Look to the peaks, Helpless to play their game/Good for defence, style’s just pretence/Gather the sand, gather all the cane you can! And look there, could be a home, let's form a plan!/Ahhh Six, five, four, three, two, one!

Again, pretty self-explanatory. The players are settling in, and again they're unaware and not in control of how things are going to turn out. "Six, five, four, three, two, one" is counting the potential lives people can have, as the maximum is six.

Look to their land, in the middle of nowhere!/There is an old, old right to be fought for: lives to be lived, and not lived for naught – Through the wants and the woe there/To laugh, be alive, defend our pride, Herald what must be done/To cause chaos, to protect, to attack!

Again, players settling in while the Watchers watch (heh) on.

Best all in this land, in the middle of nowhere/Strike one! Strike two! You're done! You're through! Take your friends for your foes there/No time for mercy Till a champion has won/when the only thing that you can do is-

"Surpass them all/take friends for foes" from the poem – otherwise not much to say. The players are already delving into the ruthless nature of the games – they've been through this before (according to Martyn canon, players keep their memories, but don't keep the emotions associated with them as they've been fed on).

Four for the traitor, four for the pawn, Six for the swindler selling the dawn; Five for the wolf and three for the mole, Two for the witness outstepping his role.

This is the start of lives being distributed. Note that for these, some titles were able to be thought of more than others, as I did need to pay attention to rhymes and scanning. Most of these titles refer to what they were in 3rd Life.

@linnight22 already guessed all of these correctly, but here's a list:

"The traitor" – Bdubs (he infamously betrayed Impulse in 3rd Life for a clock)

"The pawn" – Martyn (he's basically a pawn to the Watchers)

"The swindler selling the dawn" – Scar ("selling the dawn" refers to how impossible and exaggerated the things he claims to sell are. Again though I've used sun imagery so if you want to somehow link that to Grian, go ahead)

"The wolf" – Joel (he's frequently associated with wolf imagery and it fits personality-wise)

"The mole" – Impulse (mostly referring to him being a mole in Dogwarts in 3rd Life – and I'm still on the 3l!Impulse was never a traitor to the Crastle train – but also an animal pun. I do admit this one was one where I needed rhymes and syllables, so it unfortunately doesn't describe his personality very well.)

"The witness outstepping his role" – Grian, for obvious Watcher reasons

Four, the enigma and expert alike, Three, the beholder, avoiding the strike; Two for the martyr, six for the moon, Two for the fierce-hearted cynic, untombed!

"The enigma" – Etho (demeanour and how hard people find it to decipher and predict him)

"The expert" – Mumbo (partly because he's a redstone expert, mostly because it fits as a descriptor for how he comes off as pretty knowledgeable, and also sort of a reference to his fancy professor-like skin)

"The beholder avoiding the strike" – BigB (not a watcher reference this time, but referring to how in 3rd Life he was quite passive as opposed to throwing himself into the action. "Avoiding the strike" is partly a descriptor for that but fits more with Last Life!BigB, with him being too hesitant/fearful of killing someone with the Boogeyman curse until it was too late and he had to kill Cleo)

"The martyr" – Scott (most open/prone to sacrificing himself for someone/something else out of all the players, eg when he refuses to fulfil the Boogeyman curse this season. And additional unintentional symbolism: , and c!Scott (defying 'higher beings')

"The moon" – Pearl, for obvious reasons

"The fierce-hearted cynic, untombed" – Cleo, for obvious reasons

Three for the hero, four for the dame/There is an old tale, now soon to come, Six for the self-dubbed master of games/The stage has been set, the bell has been rung, let curtains soon rise, let lights dim as one! Two, for the king with no subjects to call/The audience trembles, anxious to know what joys and disasters they shall be shown in- Two, the canary, destined to fall.../-all, when the curtains fall...

"The hero" – Skizz (righteous, passionate – generally his atmosphere and the fact he is one of the more 'heroic' players, at least to me)

"The dame" – Lizzie (demeanour, the fact she's the Shadow Queen this season, and also the fact her username is LDShadowLady, "lady" usually referring to someone of a higher status)

"The self-dubbed master of games" – Tango (he loves creating games and bets to spice things up, see You Bet Your Life and Dare to Flare. Note that "self-dubbed" isn't shade on his abilities at all, just the fact that it's a title he tends to embrace/place on himself)

"The king with no subjects to call" – Ren, for obvious reasons (for people who haven't watched 3rd Life or consumed post-3rd Life Renchanting content, he declared himself the "Red King" there, and role-played as that for the rest of the season)

"The canary destined to fall" – Jimmy, for obvious reasons (for anyone not exposed to the canary imagery: he's always out first, there's lots of canary imagery especially on Tumblr around him due to canaries being used in coal mines to keep track of poisonous gases. If the canary died, there was gas and everyone else would be in danger, symbolising the beginning of the end of things)

And finally, more show/stage imagery from the lyrics being sung at the same time! "The bell has been rung" refers to the bells that are rung before performances (or at least I know they're rung in operas), functioning as the 10/5-minute call, etc – basically signalling that the performance is going to start very soon. And again, the Watchers see all this as a show for their entertainment. "The audience" here refers to both the Watchers and to us.

("when the curtains fall" doesn't mean the curtains fall at the start of the show, it's more what they will have experienced by the time the show has been completed)

Caught in this land, in the middle of nowhere. Will it still end in woe there? Will it all come undone?/Did you hear that sound? So many feelings so grand can arise from the middle of nowhere!/Did you hear that voice? But – let our stars lead the show there, Heeding: our will be done!

Again, Watchers being Watchers – they're speculating on how things will turn out (while knowing that yes, they most likely will) and sort of showing fake sympathy. "So many feelings so grand can arise" – again, they're doing this to feed on the emotions that arise from the players during the games.

"Our Will Be Done" is something the Watchers say to c!Martyn very frequently, it functions as their signature phrase – basically it's a sign to anyone who already knows about the lore that these are most definitely the Watchers singing.

"Did you hear that sound/Did you hear that voice" are sung by c!Martyn – as I've said, listener!Martyn is not canon, it's referring to the fact that the Watchers speak to him and are probably letting him hear this to mess with him.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 25 / 31 * THE HONEYMOONERS 」

[Date Unknown] 1985A Timeline

Five…six…seven…

Thunder booms, rattling Heaven and Earth with its might. Count the seconds between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder and it'll tell you how far away the storm is.

Two miles, maybe.

It feels like it's right on top of them.

The ground shakes beneath them, rattling her bones so hard she can feel it in her teeth, and rather than run for cover, she turns to George sitting on the grass beside her, pressed up against a rock, and nestles closer.

“It feels like every time we try and do something, there’s a terrible storm.” Lorraine smiles, but it never reaches her eyes. “Our first dance, our honeymoon—don’t you remember?”

Sighing, Lorraine closes her eyes, losing herself to the grainy film reel of memory rolling behind her eyes. Even soaked to the bone, his clothes clinging awkwardly to him, George was a vision—a dream—and his almost pathetic wet puppy-dog expression made her heart soar. “By the time we got to the hotel, we were soaked. You nearly walked into the door; you couldn’t see anything with your hair in your eyes like that! I had to keep brushing your bangs out of your eyes while you carried our bags.”

George smiles, indulging the trip down memory lane with a gentle squeeze to her hand. He’s cold again, Lorraine thinks distantly—he’s been terribly cold lately, as if the sun has refused to touch him, angry with him for some perceived slight against it—but that doesn’t bother her.

She’ll keep warm enough for both of them. Light that fire in her chest and her stomach and stoke it until he leaches every ounce of warmth through her fingers for himself and his cheeks glow with it.

It’s all for him, anyway.

“That was one of the happiest nights of my life. I can’t believe you thought you ruined it just because of a storm. ‘We must be cursed, Lorraine,’ you told me, and I thought that was one of the most ridiculous things I'd ever heard. Even more ridiculous than when you told me about Darth Vader.”

“But that—”

“Really happened, I know. I believed you.”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually.” Lorraine chokes on the laugh she tries to force out. The first drops of rain pelt her cheeks and she uses her free hand to furiously wipe them away, ignoring the stinging sensation on her skin.

“We should go inside—the storm’s coming. You’ll get soaked.”

Lorraine shakes her head furiously, squeezing George’s hand so tight her nails bite deep into her palms, drawing blood. The wind sighs as it whips her messy hair around her head, knowing there is no changing her mind.

“I don’t care about the rain. I like sitting out here with you. It’ll be just like all the other times, won’t it, George?”

Just like all the other times.

Just like last time.

A second wave of burning rain bites at her cheeks and George lets go of her hand to gently drag his thumb across her cheek. Lorraine chokes back another sob, her shoulders trembling with the effort it takes to keep herself composed.

Her cheeks are still burning. The earth smells like petrichor.

The next crack of thunder shatters her composure, leaving her ears ringing. Lorraine’s shaky fingers fumble at her pocket as she curls her fingers around the crystal clear flame protected within, sloshing around in its container.

George never did get wet when it rained.

[waytooinvested]

Forgotten, Not Forgiven - Chapter 4

Still reeling from finding out the truth herself, Lena suddenly finds herself in the midst of an odd role reversal in which she knows that Kara is Supergirl, but Kara no longer has any idea she has ever been more than an ordinary human. And what’s more, Lena has no choice but to keep the truth from her for her own protection…

Rift era reconciliation/fix-it fic, starts out kind of on the angsty side but there will be more fluff later and plenty of bonding.

This and previous chapters are also on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back home in her penthouse Lena headed straight for the kitchen, not bothering to pause long enough to remove her jacket or shoes.

It turns out that you were just too incompetent to work it out. You’ve really let me down Lena.

She pulled a glass out of the cupboard, half filled it with chardonnay, then stared down into the pale liquid for a few seconds, as if it might offer her some words of comfort to replace the relentless echo of all that had happened in Lex’s bunker.

She’s just like you – a lesser imitation of the real power in her family.

Lena drained the contents in a single long swallow, shuddering as the chilled wine hit the back of her throat.

I would love to believe you, but that can’t possibly be true.

She looked down at the glass in her hand, twirling the stem between her fingers as she contemplated the last couple of drops at the bottom.

I can think of a Luthor who might think that something like that was fitting revenge, but it’s not Lex.

Then she threw it against the wall.

Hard.

It shattered, raining sharp fragments over the kitchen floor.

Good.

Lena left the glittering pieces where they lay and took out a whiskey tumbler, her movements deliberate and precise as she slammed it onto the worktop almost hard enough to crack the crystal, a counterpoint to the furious tremble that kept trying to assert itself in her hands.

She refused to let so much as a tremor show itself as she poured a triple measure from the dusty bottle she kept at the back of her drinks cabinet. It was rougher than her usual choice of scotch and lacked the subtle complexity of a fine sipping whiskey, but Lena wasn’t in the mood for slow savouring. She wanted to knock it back and feel it all the way down to her stomach.

She wanted it to burn.

Lena had let Lex live the last time they’d met, and to repay her he had taken the one person she least wanted to have to care about and forced her into a position where she had no moral choice but to actively save her; then behaved like he had done her a favour as he left her to be blamed for his crime by someone she had once called a friend.

She had helped Alex and the DEO to track down the missing Supergirl and had been on the point of getting her out safely, and yet had ended up right back where she always did – tarred with the Luthor brush and assumed to be a villain.

And as for Kara: somehow even unconscious Kara had managed to draw to the surface all the vulnerability Lena did not want to admit to herself she possessed and reignite the searing flame of a betrayal that simultaneously overshadowed and was dwarfed by how much she had loved her before all this happened.

Well, let them.

It was over now, and they had got all the amusement they were going to get from her.

She had done her part and got Kara safely home. She had warned the DEO what would happen if they convinced Supergirl of her identity without finding a way to circumvent Lex’s trap, and even shot her own brother (albeit unsuccessfully) in an attempt to stop any further harm being done. Alex and the entire DEO would be working on Kara’s case from now on, and it was clear that they neither needed nor wanted her help with that. She had nothing to feel guilty about, and she didn’t owe them another second of her time.

From now on, they could damn well manage without her, and if they tried to rope her in again-

Lena’s cell phone rang.

Out of habit, she pulled it out her pocket and stared at the name on her screen.

Alex.

Fucking nerve.

She looked at the ringing phone in her hand for a long moment before jabbing the screen to reject the call.

Only it seemed that the half glass of wine and single swallow of whiskey she had managed to consume so far must have gone to her head faster than usual, because somehow she had hit the accept icon instead, and now she was holding the phone to her ear as if she had any intention at all of speaking to Alexandra Danvers, now or ever again.

Which she absolutely did not.

‘What do you want Alex. Did you call to tell me you’ve changed your mind and you’re coming to arrest me after all? Because it’s not a wise move to tip off your criminals in advance like that’.

Well, maybe a nice cathartic argument was exactly what she needed right now.

‘No, of course not... I actually called to thank you for your help getting Supergirl back, and to apologise. I was beyond out of line with how I treated you today, and I’m sorry. No matter how bad it looked I should never have assumed the worst like that – I know you would never hurt Kara the way Lex did. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I tend to get kind of over protective when I think Kara’s in danger and this time you got caught up in that... it’s no excuse, but I wanted you to know. I really am sorry Lena’.

That was… not what she had been expecting. The apparently sincere apology slightly took the wind out of her sails, though it was far from good enough. After all, apologising after the fact was easy. It didn’t mean that if something like this ever happened again, they wouldn’t find themselves right back where they had been, with Alex’s gun aimed squarely between Lena’s eyes as she reduced her to nothing more than another scheming Luthor.

‘Apology noted’.

Her tone crackled with the ice she hadn’t bothered to add to her drink, and Alex must have sensed that she was about to hang up on her, because before Lena could tap the end call icon she called out again, at a volume clearly intended to be heard by someone who had pulled the phone away from their ear.

‘Wait! Lena, I also wanted to check on how you’re doing. Today was a lot, and I can’t imagine how I’d be feeling right now if I’d been put in a position where shooting Kara felt like the only option I had left’.

Lena should have hung up anyway, but it was such a patently ridiculous false comparison that she couldn’t resist getting drawn in long enough to refute it.

‘Yes, well, Lex and Kara are hardly the same, are they?’

‘No, but he’s still your brother, and that can’t have been an easy choice to make. I honestly don’t know if I could have made the same one in your position’.

Of course she couldn’t have, Alex would always put Kara’s life ahead of anyone else’s. It had been one thing they used to agree on.

‘That’s because you’re not a Luthor’.

Not a scorpion. Not like Lena.

‘And you’re not as ruthless as you’re making out. I’m sorry I let myself forget that today, but you shouldn’t. You saved Kara. Even after everything that happened between you, you called me and offered to help get her back, and then you did. I owe you for that. I truly hope that we can find a non-lethal way to deal with Lex once and for all, but if it ever really comes down to it and there is no other choice, I will take the shot myself’.

Lena stared down at the phone in her hand, as if that might somehow help her take in the vehement resolve in Alex’s tone as she promised to shoot Lex Luthor.

Maybe she had a little more sting in her tail than Lena had given her credit for.

‘I thought the DEO didn’t kill these days’.

‘We don’t if we can help it, and I won’t if there’s another way. I don’t want to be a killer. But sometimes there is no other way, and if we reach that point with Lex, you shouldn’t have to be the one to do it’.

There was a lump in Lena’s throat that she couldn’t entirely explain.

It wasn’t gratitude.

It was just that she had never imagined that someone else would offer to do this just to spare her from being the one who had to kill him. Lex was her brother. Her problem. Her responsibility. It was a burden she had borne for years without any expectation of relief.

Not that she intended to lay it down now.

But even so…

She sighed, hearing the whoosh of her breath crackle through the speaker and across the miles that separated them to reach Alex’s ear, a wordless acknowledgement of an offer she couldn’t bring herself to say thank you for right now.

‘I assume this is the part where you ask me to help you find a way to get Supergirl back?’

‘Honestly? Yeah, we could really use your help. You know how Lex operates better than any of us, and you are mind blowingly good at off the cuff inventions for things no one else would even consider possible. I would love to have you on this. But that’s not why I called you, and if you decide that the way you feel about Kara and the rest of the DEO means you can’t or won’t do that I will understand. You have already done more for her than we had any right to expect’.

If Alex had tried to persuade her to help Lena would have been able to dig her heels in and refuse, and wouldn’t even have felt bad about it. It was true. She had already saved Kara, and there was no immediate risk to her life or to anyone else’s. She did not have to do this.

But somehow, when it became a genuine choice that she could say no to without consequence, Lena found herself unable to do so. She wondered fleetingly whether Alex knew that, and was trying to reverse psychology her into helping them with Supergirl, but she didn’t think so. Alex was a good Director and a genius in her own right in her field of bio engineering, but, as demonstrated by what had happened in the bunker, subtlety was not her forte. If she had called Lena with the goal of getting her to help undo Lex’s meddling, she would have asked outright.

Besides, this wasn’t just about Kara and whether or not she would get to be Super again one day. As the increasingly hysterical news articles about the disappearance of Supergirl proved, the entire city had become so reliant on her to save them that they didn’t know how to function without her, and innocent people were eventually going to die because of that.

‘I’ll help’.

‘Seriously? Lena, thank you. It’s really good to have you back on the team’.

‘Let me be clear here Alex. I will help Kara get her memories of Supergirl back, but that’s it. We are not friends, and this doesn’t changed what happened between us before Lex interfered’.

‘Fine, we’re not friends’.

Lena could almost hear the exasperated eye-roll taking place at the other end of the line, but she ignored the tone and took Alex at her word.

‘Good, just so long as we’re clear. Now, fill me in on where you are with Kara’s case and I’ll get started’.

‘That might take a while, and I need to finish the rest of the tests and collate the results first. Meet me at Al’s at 6pm tomorrow and we can go through it then. I feel like we’re going to need a drink for this’.

[ep2nd]

I made this AU whenEmpires s2 started but eh here we go-

Remember this is my take and my story based in cannon events thank you.

Odyssey's Sequel AU

Empires season one ended in destruction, death, departure, and disaster.

Scott died, Xornoth died, Joey died(maybe), Pearl died, Katherine left, Lizzie forgot, Joel lost everything, Jimmy left, Fwhip and Gem flew away, Sausage lost everything, Pix disappeared, and Shrub left to find the Gnomes.

All the empires were destroyed; the Ocean Empire and Cod Empire drained, Mezalea split in half, the Lost Empire burned down, the Grimlands exploded, the Crystal Cliffs shattered, Rivendell was Corrupted, Gilded Helinthia withered away, Mythland was overrun with Blood Sheep and darkness, the Overgrown(also House Blossom) shriveled up in flames and cracks, and Pixandria was abandoned.

So, the empires and emperors died.

Until 1,000 years later.

New Empires rose up.

And with it, new emperors.

Except they are all related to the Past Emperors in some way.

Scott, King of Chromia: a Reincarnation of Scott of Rivendell

Joel, god of lightning and thunder: a descendent of Joel, King of Mezalea

Jimmy, of the Codlands: a traveler of space time, the same Jimmy from the past, but changed

Lizzie, Mayor of Critter City: blessed by Lizzie, the Ocean Empress

Shubble, the witch of the Evermore: descendent of Shrub, the Gnome Queen

Joey, Pirate of the Eversea: Rebirth of Joey(same person but died, was born again, and lost memories), Emperor of the Lost Empire

Katherine, Princess of Glimmer Grove: Descendent and chosen of Katherine, Chosen of the Overgrown

Sausage, Protector of Sanctuary: Reborn of Sausage(same person, didn't die, was granted a another chance after the Afterlife, eventually got his memories back), King of Mythland

Fwhip, Goblin King: Haunted by Fwhip, the Count(shares a mind with past Fwhip)

Gem, Princess of Dawn: Spirited by Gem, the High Wizard(the old soul of Gem died and possessed present Gem)

Pix, Historian of the Ancient Capital: Revived Pix, the Copper King(died and came back to life, lost memories)

False, Queen of Cogsmeade: Chosen by Pearl, the Harvest Queen

Oli, Bard of the Olipoligo: Chosen by Xornoth, the demon

I will get more into this AU, along with how everyone deals with this sensation, what being Chosen means, etc.

Asks are always welcomed:)

[limitlessscion]

@saiakv i had too many feelings to not give a response

There was a unique quality to the way spilled human blood carried cursed energy, stemming from the significance often placed upon it. It marked the passing of violence, of the potency given in ritual, it was death and it was life; and in that way it hummed with potential curses. Satoru had always killed without needing to stain his own being with such a curse, Infinity stating his position as above such concerns. Taking life was an amoral right he'd been given since his birth.

Yet how easily Suguru smeared that red onto him.

And Satoru let him. Time and time again, he'd always let him. Past the godhood that shielded him, the blood that stained him was never the blood he shed with his own hands. It burned with its unique energy in his sixth sight, still warm from the horrors of stolen life and stolen youth but he did not, could not, care. The warmth was buried beneath a greater heat, the one that kept his heart thawed and staved off an endless blizzard he'd forgotten how to survive. He refused to freeze out there any longer, and he'd feed parts of himself to keep that flame going.

That's what this impulse to share was, wasn't it? Even with the happiness they were able to provide each other, there was still this divide that could never be bridged. Always, always, he was pulling Suguru closer and with every passing day his grip tightened more fiercely. He couldn't accept that the nature of infinity was to push away, that this desperate move to unify their experiences could only serve to drive something new between them, etch into stone the true extent of their difference with the full manifestation of Limitless. He watched for Suguru's reaction with clueless excitement, radiating that pure joy that was only ever elicited by his old friend's presence.

He poured his soul into this experience. The rough uneven ridges of each strand of beautiful black hair. The torn chaos of fibre at a scale that was nothing like the solid cloth that it weaved together to create. The rupturing of lipid bilayers as blood cells dried, iron spilling as folded proteins unravelled. Crystals growing in perfect angles wordlessly, expanding as water turned to vapour and ions clashed with ions to form salt on wettened skin.

Tears. Those were tears.

His focus pulled back from the micro to the macro, at the warm touch upon his cheek and the softness in Suguru's voice, so filled with love that it pulled a smile back on his own face even as he puzzled over his lover's response. Something was wrong. The hand that gripped his own loosened and pulled away, the one on his face slipping. Their fingerpads made contact as fingers brushed past to their final contact. In that split second he had a decision to make, his sharp reflexes refusing to absolve him of this choice. So he made his choice.

His grip doesn't tighten. He lets Suguru go.

A heartbeat passes, then two, then three— the thrill of the risk setting it instantly to pound against his chest in protest. Then hand grips wrist, partially dried blood cracking and smearing across his palm, and he pulls Suguru back into his embrace. Do you see then? Do you understand? He had wanted to share. Everything, all of him, not just the meek tamed version crafted for mortal consumption. He was chaos and violence and beyond comprehension and he knows this, he understands that Satoru Gojo could only be a calamity, a curse. A curse willingly submitted to the Curse Manipulator.

Infinite Void shattered around them as he held Suguru to his chest, heartbeat drumming against heartbeat in unison and Satoru closed those vacant violet eyes. As powerful of a Sorcerer as he was, it'd still take time for him to recover.

While they'd basked in the chaotic perfection of Infinity, the heavens had opened up with the suddenness of a summer storm. It didn't take long for both to be soaked to the bone, the gentle warmth not befitting the gruelling sight of blood washing away from them both. Satoru carried Suguru solemnly in his arms, Limitlessly burnt out, leaving him in his vulnerability to soak in the downpour he could not reject.